We're happy to help Meerkat Press support the release of their latest title, Calvaria Fell: Stories, by participating in their blog tour. And if you're at all into winning free stuff, they're running a giveaway where you can potentially win a $25 Meerkat Press Giftcard.
I've always been curious to know who authors get star struck over, and whether they've brushed shoulders with the people they most admire. So...we're starting a cool new author series in which they get to share their sixe degrees of separation or close calls with celebrities/authors/musicians....
When Bono Kissed Me
By Cat Sparks
Sydney, 1993. Rumour had it that one of the New South Wales Premier’s
daughters wanted desperately to meet U2 so on 26th November daddy made it happen with
a government reception in the State Office Block (AKA The Black Stump) where I
worked as a media monitor and the Premier’s official photographer. Everyone
with any kind of half-baked excuse crammed into the top floor reception rooms.
The band wore matching uniforms & probably wondered what the hell they were
doing there surrounded by star stuck public servants. Later it transpired U2 had trouble booking their Sydney
concerts, as the Sydney Cricket Ground Trust rejected their application for the Sydney Football Stadium until
Premier John
Fahey personally
intervened to allow the shows to take place.
Photography
was tricky as everyone was bumper to bumper but I managed to elbow my way to
enough reasonable shots. I can’t remember which kind of film camera I was
using, only that it was definitely manual focus. Suddenly Bono appears and he’s
smiling right at me. He pushes through the throng, raises his arm, gently lifts
the camera from my hands, wrangles his face is next to mine, aims, kisses my
cheek and takes a selfie. Note – there were no ‘selfies’ back then and the odds
of getting the shot in focus were pretty much zero. Apparently, this was his signature
move with female photographers. He returned my camera and jostled off into the
crowd. Gobsmackingly, the shot (which I developed and printed myself) was
indeed in focus as you can see.
Premier’s staff were given a bunch of free tickets to that
evening’s show. Wikipedia reports that bass player Adam Clayton had a few too
many drinks and was unable to play that evening but I have no memory of this or
his guitar technician Stuart Morgan filling in. The entire evening was magical.
The photo prompts in me a single regret – no longer being in
possession of such bushy au naturale
eyebrows.
Releasing today!
Science Fiction | Dystopian | Dark Fantasy
Calvaria Fell
is a stunning collaborative collection of weird tales from two acclaimed
authors, Kaaron Warren and Cat Sparks. It features previously published stories
from both authors, along with a new novella by Kaaron Warren and four new
stories by Cat Sparks. The collection offers a glimpse into a chilling future
world that is similar to our own. Readers will be drawn into experiences at
once familiar and bizarre, where our choices have far-reaching consequences and
the environment is a force to be reckoned with. The title of the collection
tethers these stories to a shared space. The calvaria is the top part of the
skull, comprising five plates that fuse together in the first few years of
life. Story collections work like this; disparate parts melding together to
make a robust and sturdy whole. The calvaria tree, also known as the dodo tree,
adapted to being eaten by the now-extinct dodo bird; its seeds need to pass
through the bird’ s digestive tract in order to germinate. In a similar way,
the stories in Calvaria Fell reflect the idea of adaptation and the
consequences of our actions in a changing world.
BUY LINKS: Meerkat Press | Bookshop.org | Amazon
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Gardens of Earthly Delight
Cat
Sparks
“Them
two in the corner. The ones wrapped up in silver. Those would make a lovely
pair of elves.”
The
broker squints through the floating detention center’s musty ambience,
searching through the mess of huddled forms. Forty bodies jammed into each
cage, barely stirring from heat stress and exhaustion. “Might do,” he says,
sniffing loudly, wiping his nose on his damp stained sleeve. “How much?”
The
guard names a figure and the broker laughs. “They’re flotsam off the Risen Sea,
not royalty or richling lah-de-dahs! I’ll give you sixty for the both,
providing they don’t got nothing worse than scabies.”
“Eighty,”
says the guard, crossing his arms. “Their bloods are clean. My cages are the
cleanest on this barge!”
“So
you reckon,” says the broker, patting down his pockets for his purse.
“Seventy—and that’s my final. Take it or you can bugger off.”
The
men bump elbows to seal the deal and a fold of grimy notes passes hand to hand.
The guard unclips a torch from his belt, light-spears the huddled forms until
they squirm. “You two—get yerselves moving if you know what’s good for ya,”
Thermal
blankets shiver, disgorging tangled arms and legs. Thin brown bodies shielding
eyes from the bright beam, nudging their way to the cage’s single door.
Stepping around the ones who can’t or won’t budge.
Silver
scrunches as the boy clasps the blanket against his chest.
“Ed
here’s got an employment opportunity,” says the guard.
“What
kind?” says the girl.
“Well,
aren’t we the picky ones. A one-way ticket out of this shithole and ’asides—you
won’t be getting nothing better. Barge can only hold so many. Pass this up and
you’ll end up wherever yer sent.”
He
sniffs . . . wherever yer sent being well understood as
code for over the side. The fetid harbor holds a lot of secrets.
Crinkling
thermal masks, covert whispers. “We stay together,” the girl states. “We must
not be separated.”
The
guard dips the beam, slings a glance at the broker who nods enthusiastically.
“Oh yeah, they’re definitely a set. No question. Madame will take ’em both, for
sure. No worries.”
He
leans closer. “Madame takes her job real serious. Reckon she used to be one of
your lot. She’ll see you straight and have yer back. Takes a hefty cut of coin
but she’s worth it all.”
The
guard waves over armed reinforcements before punching in a complicated door
code. Dulled detainees groan and shift, taking an interest in proceedings,
rattling wires and slinging slurs and insults.
The
guard grabs the girl’s thin arm to yank her through the doorway. The boy leaps
after, abandoning the blanket to a sea of grabbing hands as the heavy steel
cage door is slammed and bolted.
—
Madame
raises an eyebrow when she learns how far the twins have come. Nobody travels
far these days. Not like in the Before time when people wandered free and easy
to far-off lands with names and edges, their borders crossed with a minimum of
fuss and barter.
She
frowns but doesn’t contradict. Madame Bastarache didn’t get to be uncontested
Grandam of Calvaria Estate for decades without knowing when and why to listen.
“Give
us yer names, then.”
“I’m
Pearl,” says the girl, standing straight, “and he is Kash.”
“You’ll
make a simply adorable faery duo, sister Pearl and brother Kash. Is faeries
what you had in mind?” Madame eyes them over, her eyelids thickly painted petal
pink. “You’re skinny enough for faeries, tis for sure. Course you know you’ll
have to stay that way. And then there’ll be the wing implants. Some folks don’t
take too well to that kind of thing.”
“We
will take to it,” says Pearl.
Kash
nods.
Madame
beams, rouged cheeks shimmering with glitter. “Glad to hear it. Faeries are a
sensible option on account of the social distance . You won’t ever have
to get too near.” She leans in closer, nods with her chin at the vast and
lavish Manor House nestled regally within a semicircle of poplars. “Manor
children observe you dancing in the distance. Flitting through sunset dappled
foliage.” She raises her hands and waggles sausage fingers. “You can both
dance, can’t you? Never mind if you can’t, we can sort you out.”
“I
dance,” said Kash.
“Excellent!”
says Madame, clasping hands together at her bosom.
“The
wing thing—will it hurt?”
“Full
anesthetic privileges,” boasts Madame. “Never less than the best for my faery
treasures. Plus, lefty food, so you won’t have to starve yourselves for those
willowy figures.”
A
crowd gathers, a hodgepodge mix of tall and short, fat and squat, hooked noses,
flappy ears and tizzy hair.
Kash
opens his mouth but before he can speak, he’s drowned out by a voice from up
the back. A soft voice calling “Tell ’em about the children!”
Pearl
panics as a wave of titters ripple through the gathering.
“Hush
now, Marlene,” says Madame, “There’ll be plenty of time for that once we’ve
gotten these new folks signed and sealed.”
Kash
grips Pearl’s arm. She pats his hand. “And we will be working alongside other
faery folk?”
“But
of course!” Madame places two curled fingers in her mouth and whistles, long
and sharp. “Nettle dear, take our two new lovely treasures—remind me of your
names again, my sweets.”
“Pearl
and Kash and we need to stay together—no matter what. Our home was—”
“This
is your home now, darlings, and together always you shall stay! I’ll make sure
we note that in the Book.”
The
crowd parts amidst much shuffling and sniffling. A girl emerges, garbed in a
confectionary of lace and chiffon; mincing steps, careful not to trip. She
winks at Pearl. “Youse can call me Nettie. Reckon ya wanna walk or take the
carriage?”
Says
Madame, “May I recommend a casual stroll around the lake past the weeping
willows. Take in the sights and get suitably acquainted.”
More
muttering and mumbling as the crowd disperses.
“The
old bag never lets me take the carriage,” says Nettie once they are safely out
of earshot. “She should try walking in these stupid shoes.”
“So
gorgeous,” says Kash.
“The
fuckers pinch,” says Nettie, “not to mention shatter easy on account of them
being glass. I still got scars from falling off the last pair.” She tugs at her
hem to expose the damage. Kash bends for a closer look, but Pearl can’t take
her eyes off the immense, luxurious garden vista wrapped around them like a
cloak. Deep green as far as she can see, dotted with ornate fountains. Sculpted
boxwood hedges, cypress trees reaching heavenward, like arrows. Occasional
crumbling ruins out of place amongst such symmetry and balance.
An old
man in long white robes ambles across the lawn with the aid of a gnarled staff.
Vanishes into a distant copse. The lawns are amazing. Everything in this place
is amazing.
“First
thing to know, don’t mind the animals,” says Nettie once they’ve left the crowd
behind. “Not a one of ’em’s for real. Not dangerous, all totally built for
show.”
“Not
real how?”
“Mechanicals,”
she continues, “but you could never tell from looking. They stink every bit as
much as the real thing.”
The
twins nod, because if it’s one thing they are familiar with, it’s the stench of
starving, feral beasts with matted fur and dirty claws coming at you once the
lights are out.
But
the animals gamboling on the lawns are different to anything they’ve seen; so
sleek and healthy, clean and beautiful. They pause to admire two mighty loping
creatures. Freeze as one tags the heels of the other till they tumble in a
playful heap.
Nettie
laughs. “Like kittens, really, only bigger. Black one’s jaguar, the stripes is
called a tiger.”
“But
not real?” says Pearl.
“Hell
no,” says Nettie, slapping the air. “But they’ll still run a mile if you try to
pat them. Authentic programming in memory of the beasts that once were living.
Lots of things are memorial in this place.”
Kash
wants to speak but Pearl gives him a nudge. First thing’s figuring where they
stand. Who to trust and who must be avoided.
The
list of things she wants to ask grows with every step. Lefty food? And what
about the children—are they dangerous? She’s known children who would shiv you
with a shard of glass for half a moldy crust, but Calvaria does not seem like
that kind of place.
Nettie
wipes her nose on her wrist. “Spose she’ll want me to rattle the entirety.”
Takes a deep gulp of air before beginning.
“Calvaria’s
what they call Italianate. You know: topiary, obelisks, orbs, columns,
cones and domes. Focal points to lead the eye, providing balance and a sense of
drama.” Nettie strikes a theatrical pose and rolls her eyes. “Whole
thing’s inspired by the Greeks and Romans. One pinched it off the other—I can
never remember which way round it goes.”
Calvaria
is the neatest place Pearl has ever seen, all clean, geometric shapes and
lines. Climbing roses and lilypond terraces. Marble lion’s head fountains
spewing crystal water.
“And
Madame Bastarache,” asks Pearl, “is she Italianate as well?”
Nettie
giggles. “Lotta rumors going round about where she’s from and what she might be
hiding under those skirts— if you know what I mean .”
Pearl
doesn’t know, but nods. “What did Madame mean about the children?”
“Nasty
little shits,” says Nettie. “Don’t go near them tis my best advice.”
Nettie’s
limp becomes more pronounced as they continue. But Pearl is too distracted by a
fortune’s worth of lemon trees with overladen branches to ask why. Fallen
lemons unclaimed on the grass. Bunny rabbits, plump and fluffy, unconcerned
by people walking near.
After
an hour spent crossing vast swathes of verdant, spongy lawn and a thousand
wonders, including hedge mazes and sky glistening with unnatural sheen, and
miniature versions of famous structures from old magazines: Arc de Triomphe,
Acropolis of Athens, Rome Colosseum, the twins are shown to a little cottage
nestled amongst others. Each one different, every garden blooming with curling
fronds and pudgy blossoms, thick, fleshy leaves, creeping vines in shades of
green with silver-gray stripes.
“All
yours,” says Nettie. “I’ll leave youse both to settle in and tomorrow we’ll get
started on the training.” She spins on translucent heels and heads back along
the leaf-strewn path, pausing after a few steps. “One more thing,” she calls
over her shoulder, “mind you don’t get up to anything you don’t want that
lot knowing about.” She nods in the direction of Calvaria’s Manor House,
gives a cheery little wave and totters off.
Peapod
cottage says the engraved plaque cemented to
the ivy-covered wall. Small, but neat. Less pokey than it seems from the
outside. The kitchen table has places set for two. A fruit basket, fresh baked
loaf and cheese.
Kash
lunges, tears off chunks to stuff into his mouth.
“Hell’s
sake . . . use the knife!” Pearl’s mouth waters as she sits and
reaches for the cheese. Their last meal had been two days back. Watery gruel
bulked up with insect protein.
“This
can’t be real,” she says with her mouth full. “Gotta be a catch. There has to
be.”
“Wing
implants.”
She
nods, cringing.
“And
tigers. Maybe we turn out to be their dinner.”
“This lefty
food is tasty.”
“Maybe
it turns into poison in our stomachs?”
Pearl
shakes her head. “But why bother? They paid for us, they must want us for
something.” She casts her eye over the kitchen: grainy burled wood with earthy
mottling. Smooth floors of ivory painted brick. A hearth, blue and white
patterned wall tiles. Dangling copper-bottomed pots and pans.
A
well-thumbed book with a bright yellow cover sits, partly obscured by the
basket’s rattan bulk. She tugs it free and flips through tatty pages.
“Whassat?”
“The
Types of International Folktales: A Classification and Bibliography.” She holds the page up close to her face. “Print’s too small.
Smells musty.”
“Like
a catalogue of faeries and stuff?”
“Not
really. There’s no pictures.”
He
shrugs. “Somebody ripped them out, maybe?”
Closer
examination reveals jagged tears in several places. She closes the book and
puts it back on the table. “Kash—the mansion song we followed could only
be about Calvaria.” She closes her eyes and sings:
“When
we gaze in silent rapture,
On our
many mansions fair;
We
shall know how sweet the promise
Of a
home, forever there.”
She
opens her eyes. “Finney’s favorite song. Remember?”
Kash
nods, his mouth too full for speaking.
After slaking their thirsts with jug
after jug of water, the twins discover two identical bedrooms snuggled side by
side. They take the smaller, falling asleep as soon as their heads hit
pillows.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cat Sparks is a
multi-award-winning Australian author, editor and artist. Career highlights
include a PhD in science fiction and climate fiction, five years as Fiction
Editor of Cosmos Magazine, running Agog! Press, working as an
archaeological dig photographer in Jordan, studying with Margaret Atwood, 78
published short stories, two collections— The Bride Price (2013) and Dark
Harvest (2020) and a far future novel, Lotus Blue. She directed two
speculative fiction festivals for Writing NSW and is a regular panelist &
speaker at speculative fiction and other literary events.
Kaaron Warren has been publishing ground-breaking fiction
for over twenty years. Her novels and short stories have won over 20 awards,
from local literary to international genre. She writes horror steeped in awful
reality, with ghosts, hauntings, guilt, loss, love, crime, punishment and a
lack of hope.
